


occupational hazard

by neptuneslight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, all i have to offer are the screams of a thousand suns and eternal suffering, dubiously informed medical content, peter parker is the dumbest dumbass, some weird ass version of a sick fic i guess, we’re vikings it’s an occupational hazard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25219462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neptuneslight/pseuds/neptuneslight
Summary: Peter scrapes the web remnants off and unabashedly drops it into a red, soggy pile on the floor. A bullet hole stares back at him, leaking blood.Damn. Bodega Robber: one. Peter: zero.Maybe it’ll get horribly infected, and Peter won’t be forced into giving his presentation tomorrow.or: peter parker is a dumb ass hoe
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 185
Collections: The Friendly Neighborhood Exchange





	occupational hazard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephemeralstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstark/gifts).



> to the dear ephemeralstark: you requested a sick fic and you got…. this. it’s a thing. we won’t acknowledge it. 
> 
> -
> 
> thanks to [storm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_aurora/pseuds/radioactive_storm) for beta-ing this 
> 
> cw throwing up / minor canon typical violence

Peter chunks the purple rubber ball as hard as he can from his seat. It ricochets viciously off the walls, bouncing against every flat surface of the lab in front of him, and rolls to a stop between Tony’s feet.

DUM-E whirs loudly as he chases after the ball, heading straight for Tony’s ankles. Peter waits for the inevitable collision, a smile on his face.

"Ah-ah-ah, not today," Tony's hand shoots out and catches DUM-E by his claw the second before the small bot rams into his legs. "You think you're so sneaky, huh, you worthless hunk of scrap metal?"

"Hey." Peter's brow furrowed. "That was mean. You're being mean to him."

Tony looks up, faux surprise painted on his face. "Who? DUM-E?" His mouth quirks up at the corner. "I was talking to you."

"I'm sorry?" Peter puts a hand to his chest, painting on his best Offended Victorian Woman face.

Tony doesn’t spare him a glance as he brushes his hands off on his pants and walks away from his workbench, abandoning the nano unit he’s been working on, and locates his own rolling chair. He throws himself into the seat, spinning away from his bench and everything on it. There's quiet for about thirty seconds before he scooches forward in his seat until he's in front of Peter, and he leans forward and plants his knees on his elbows.

"Hey, you know that web formula you were working on last time?" Tony asks. "The one that was all fabric-y? We were talking about maybe using it for medical stuff."

He has to think for a second before it comes back to him. “Yeah. Yeah, the one you tried to stick me to the wall with?"

Tony grins, not a speck of regret in sight. Peter maybe wants to punch him. Just a little.

"That's the one," he chirps. He kicks away hard, chair shooting towards his desk, and he snatches something off the desk before rocketing back to Peter. "Well, surprise." He throws a heavy stack of papers at Peter, who barely manages to catch it before it smacks him in the face. "I got it patented. It's yours now."

"Uh. Cool. Thanks." Peter turns around and dumps it on his workbench, panicking a little when the pages start to slide everywhere.

"That's not—"

_Smack!_

"—the only thing," Tony continues, totally ignoring Peter's desperate, and failed, attempt to keep the papers together and on one surface. "I _also_ got you a fifteen minute slot at the Stark Industries Business and Innovation gala next Friday to talk about your new creation. You could make serious bank. Save a lot of lives."

Peter freezes, half bent over his table, as his stomach twinges uncomfortably at the thought of _'talking.'_ The sheets of paper not stuck to his hands slip away from him and flutter to the floor. DUM-E whirs on over and starts rolling back and forth over the mess like some kind of failed, unnecessarily large Roomba.

“Oh.”

Tony’s brow furrows. He slaps DUM-E away from the mess, and the bot beeps long and loud at him.

“Well, I gotta admit, bud,” Tony begins, crossing his arms over his chest. Peter sighs and lowers himself back into his chair, prepping himself for a lecture. “I was expecting a little more enthusiasm. You know, being offered a chance to speak for a prestigious company in front of thousands of also prestigious, potential future employers and all. But yeah, no, a simple 'oh' will do. It's fine."

"Well. I mean." Peter sighs heavily and spins to face him. "You know I don't do well with that type of stuff. Public speaking and all. I mean, the only reason I passed my speech class with an A is because I am a massive suck up."

Tony quirks an eyebrow. "I don't think that's something to be proud of."

"I'm not."

"You're doing this speech."

Peter groans and slumps down in his chair so his entire lower half is hanging off and his head is cocked back at an almost uncomfortable angle. _"Tony,"_ he whines to the ceiling.

 _"Peter._ You're doing this. The only way to get over your fear is to face it and all that shit. Also, it's a huge career move and will look absolutely _stellar_ on college apps."

He sighs. "I know. I know." He picks himself back up and shoots Tony a small smile. "Thanks. Uh, I'll try not to completely embarrass you."

Tony smiles and huffs a small laugh. "Thanks, Pete." Something changes in his eyes. "But that's kinda inevitable when it comes to you."

"Hey!" he cries petulantly and slumps back down. This time DUM-E comes directly to him, and he wraps the robot in a loose hug, just to spite Tony. "God, you're just a bully. That's all you are. I don't know how the whole world still thinks you're like a—a savior or something. I hate you."

"Uh-huh," Tony says flatly. "What do you want on your pizza? The usual?"

/

Peter is still in his pajamas the next afternoon when Tony’s driving him home. 90’s rock music plays softly, the clouds are grey and low in the sky, and the thick smell of fast food and grease fills the car as Peter unwraps his cheeseburger.

Tony smacks his arm, and Peter yelps and smacks him back. Tony looks over at him incredulously. "Can you just _hand me my food?"_ he says slowly.

“Oh. Yeah, here.” 

Peter grabs the bag that somehow found its way wedged between him and the car door and the notebook balanced across his knees. He deposits it into Tony’s lap and rifles through his own food, searching for extra ketchup. 

“Can’t believe you got me a Happy Meal,” he mutters as he pulls the small bags out of the box. He slathers the top bun in the sauce and reaches back in for his toy. Out comes a small, purple, rice-stuffed platypus. 

“Have a good weekend?” Tony asks conversationally, plucking fries out of the bag. 

“Yeah. Thanks for the McDonald's, by the way. Even if you still insist on pretending I’m eight years old.” Peter bites into his burger and palms the small ripoff beanie baby. “But this is a very cute, uh, platypus? I guess? I don’t know, it’s kinda unrecognizable.” 

He shoves down another mouthful and switches his attention back to his notebook. 

Tony snorts. “Hm. Reminds me of Rhodey.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Next time he’s around, make sure he sees that monstrosity.”

“Uh-huh.”

“In fact, just straight up bean him with it. Go wild. It’ll be hilarious.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m on fire.”

Peter hums. “Sounds great.”

Tony snatches the notebook away from Peter and presses it up against the steering wheel. The car swerves just a tad, and two people pass them while whaling on their horns. 

Peter doesn’t bother fighting. He hides his face in his hand and mutters a quiet, but very passionate, “Dick.”

His stomach grumbles at him, also upset by this development. 

“Is this your draft for your speech? _Already?_ You know you have like, five days, right?” Tony flicks the pages back and forth, scanning over his chicken scratch. 

“Please don't,” Peter sighs. He wants to melt through the bottom of the car and make a run for it. 

“Why not? I can help you out. Maybe. Pepper writes most of my speeches, says I’m too unreliable, but I read them.”

His stomach grumbles again, this time a little bit louder and a _lot_ more uncomfortable. 

“Seriously, dude. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

 _“Dude?_ Did you just call me _dude?”_

Peter bends over and pushes his hands against his stomach. His intestines are angry at him. They are absolutely furious. Peter one hundred percent blames this on Tony Stark.

Ow. He is in _pain._

“I blame you for this,” he says through his grinding teeth.

Tony shoots him a glance. “Is it really that bad, kid?”

“I feel like Chidi right now, if that helps at all.” Still bent over, Peter takes a sip of his water, hoping it’ll help. It doesn’t. 

“Weirdly enough, it does.” Tony passes the notebook back, opened to the page he was previously adding onto. ”Get back to work, super dork.”

/

Ned tracks Peter down when he’s grabbing his lunch out of his locker. Peter forces his sigh down when he catches sight of his friend’s expression. 

“Mr. Stark wants you to present your webs? Can you even _do_ that?” Ned whispers, voice equal parts excitement and concern. “Like, physically. Can you _do that.”_

Peter’s head falls against his locker door. 

“No,” he eventually moans. “No, Ned, I _can’t.”_

Ned laughs, a little apologetic, and Peter bangs his head against the metal. 

A shutter snaps behind them, and he whirls around to come face to face with MJ. Her phone is still pointed at him, and he comes to the realization that the picture she took is _most definitely of him_ a second later. 

“No sketchbook?” he blurts out. It takes a conscious effort to de-widen his eyes. 

MJ shrugs. “It’s the 21st century. You’ll be my reference photo.”

Peter bites back a sigh and grabs his lunch out of his locker before walking towards the cafeteria. Ned walks beside him, and MJ stays a little in front. 

“So, what’s the plan? What are you gonna do?” Ned asks, resuming the conversation. 

MJ perks up. “Oh, are you talking about the speech?”

He throws his hands up, exasperated. “How does everyone know about the speech?”

MJ stops in her tracks and stares at him, gaze chilly. “Stark put it on his website. Said about two hundred of SI’s, and I quote, ‘most revered colleagues’ would be attended.”

Peter’s stomach sinks to his feet. 

“Plus,” MJ continues, “he totally name-dropped you. _‘Guest speaker and Stark Industries intern, Peter Parker,’”_ she recites. 

Peter wonders if four days is long enough to fake his own death and escape the country. 

“Aw, man,” Ned offers sympathetically. 

The nerves are getting to him. They’re seriously getting to him. It’s only Monday and his stomach feels like it’s being turned by a paint mixer. Oh god. 

Peter rushes through the nearest bathroom doors, barely managing to get to a toilet before his stomach is emptying itself. 

The door bangs open again, and two sets of footsteps slap against the tile. Ned shoves a bottle of water in his hands, and Peter swishes it around in his mouth before spitting that out, too. He slaps around the side of the toilet until he manages to pull the handle down. 

Peter could barely hear MJ’s muffled _gross_ over the roar of the water. 

“Dude, this is worrying,” Ned says. “Like, for real, worrying. Get a prescription or something.”

His stomach squeezes and he retches again, but this time nothing comes out. 

“Therapy,” MJ interrupts. “You need therapy.”

His eyes slide shut and his face contorts into a grimace as he clutches his stomach. He slumps against the thin wall like a spaghetti noodle. 

“You,” Peter rasps, “are so right you don’t even know.”

/

“Ow,” Peter mutters and he swings. Each time his body pulls against his webs, pain thrums through his abdomen. “Ow. Ow. _Ow.”_

Peter will fight Tony Stark the next time he sees him.

That man is the source of his discomfort, the only reason his insides are trying to murder him. The speech looming over his head is tearing him up inside, figuratively and literally. 

It’s on sight, bitch. Fuck you _and_ your speech. 

Like his stomach was agreeing with him, it cramped viciously again. _“Ouch,”_ Peter spits. “Jesus, this is ridiculous.”

Peter’s in Manhattan today. Partly because he wants to expand his radius, partly for the change of scenery, partly because he feels like it, mostly because he knows he can mooch off Tony’s pantry when he gets hungry.

An unexpected wave of nausea washes over him at the thought of food, sending his world kaleidoscoping all over the place as the edges of his vision tinge green. And to just _really_ cement his misery, the pain in his abdomen decides to fuck him over and kick everything up to max strength.

Peter can’t help it. He doubles over in the air, grunting at the intense flare up, and starts to fall. Everything is _spinning,_ and Peter can’t tell his up from his down and he’s four stories in the air and none of his webs are landing.

“Fuu _uu—”_

_WHIMBOOM!_

Ah. Blue. Nice Blue Sky.

Peter is on top of a car.

All his breath wheezes out of him. He swears he can feel his brain jiggle around inside his skull like chopped up jello squares. Peter just stares up at New York’s Roof _(pretty clouds, aw look at the birdies)_ as his lungs kick and heave in his chest, not wanting to work anymore. 

His lungs quit. They’re on strike. They refuse to come back to their job unless pay is raised by 3% and they get an extra week off. 

He rolls off the windshield with a high-pitched-scream-whine-groan-thing and all but faceplants into the asphalt.

Peter sucks in a rattling, pained breath from his spot on the ground. With his second, he concludes his insides aren’t broken or sloshing around randomly in his body cavities.

Still gasping like a sixty year old chain smoker, pushes himself to his knees then shuffles back until he’s hunched over in a crouch. 

“Didn’t like that,” he croaks. “Did not like that. Not one bit. Nope.”

A strangled gasp calls his attention to a dude standing beside him, clearly frozen in the middle of a step, who’s wearing a very official looking suit with a briefcase dangling from his hand. His face is drained of blood, and his mouth is hanging open. Peter has half a mind to chide him for it.

“Sorry, dude,” is what he says instead. “I’m _—hhuuuuh.”_

He takes it back. Something is definitely sloshing around. 

Peter struggles to his feet, holding his ribs, and takes a look at the vehicle that happened to catch him. Huh. An unnecessarily expensive, fancy-ass Nissan sports car. Weirdo. Peter probably did him a favor. 

Correction: it _was_ an unnecessarily expensive, fancy-ass Nissan sports car. 

He takes a second to observe the damage. The entire top of the car is crinkled inwards like a piece of paper. The front doors are bowed basically in half and are sticking out like Dobby’s freaky little goblin knees. Deep cracks splinter through the thick glass, but miraculously enough, it hasn’t shattered.

A surprisingly loud _crrrk_ echoes through the streets, and Peter watches the windshield just fucking _explode._

Well shit.

“Oooh,” Peter groans and cringes sympathetically. “My bad. That’s on me. Yeah, I take complete responsibility for that one.” 

The dude just rounds on him, speechless and wide-eyed in shock. 

“You know what?” Peter puts a placating hand up. “Give me a second. I’ll—I’ll be right back.” 

The man stays silent. Peter hustles to the hotdog vendor a couple feet down the street and sighs, “Karen? Do me a favor and pull up Tony’s insurance information. We still have that saved from last time, right?”

“The last time you destroyed a vehicle or the last time you were involved in property damage?” she asks sincerely.

“Ha ha,” Peter says sarcastically. But then he pauses for a second and considers the question. “I actually don’t… which was the most recent?”

“You swung into a hanging sign and knocked two letters off about three weeks ago.”

“Great. Fantastic,” Peter muttered as he came to a stop in front of the vendor. 

The teenager working the hotdog stand silently passes him a napkin and a pen when he comes to a stop beside it, a look of shocked amusement on her face. She’s holding her phone in her hand, and Peter sees the camera app open before he begins his walk of shame back.

Peter facepalms. He has no doubts the video documenting his demise will be trending on Twitter in three hours max.

“I have the information, Peter,” Karen says. “I’m displaying it on the screen as we speak.”

“Thanks, K.” He bends into crouch right there on the sidewalk and slides the napkin over his kneecap, ignoring the people around him, and scribbles down the information from the screen. 

Peter tucks the napkin under the windshield wipers of the crushed Nissan. The owner is just sitting against the side of the car, his knees pulled up and his phone to his ear, and shoots him a venomous glare as Peter backs away. 

He mouths sorry again and pulls himself into the air. 

Peter’s wrapping up the second attempted robbery of the night, which, come on, Manhattan, you’re supposed to be better than this, when he hears it.

“Oh?” Peter says, cocking his head to the side. His senses hone in on the alleyway, and—ah. Bingo.

A small, patchy, orange and brown cat pokes its head out from under the dumpster unit and meows again.

Straight up warmth, genuine sunshine, fills him up like a gas tank. 

A high pitched keen escapes him, and Peter practically collapses to the ground beside the dumpster, making grabby hands at the small kitty. He maneuvers his legs into a loose butterfly position and slightly tears up. He’s definitely not hurting right now. Nope.

The cat’s bright green eyes regard him carefully as it inches out from underneath the container. It crawls towards him slowly, and Peter stills as it sniffs at his open hands curiously. 

It lets out a loud trill as it loops around him exactly twice before coming to a stop in front of him, sitting and wrapping its tail neatly around the orange-speckled paws.

“Aw,” Peter coos, picking the cat up under its front limbs. Its body stretches like a slinky, revealing its—her—white underbelly, and the cat stares at him, unperturbed. “Hi, dumpster kitty. Hello, stinky.”

The cat yawns, bigger than he’s ever seen a cat yawn, before looking him directly in the eyes and letting out a small _mrew_. 

Peter just melts. 

_“Awww,”_ he says again. He lifts the cat up and sets her in between his legs, surprised when she curls up right there. 

Peter might cry. He might actually, seriously cry. 

“Hi, stinky. Hi,” he baby-talks as he runs his hand over her back. She watches him the whole time, her green eyes trained on the white mechanical lens of his mask. 

He scritches his way down her neck and to her makes his way to her chin, vibrating with joy as purrs rumble through her entire tiny body. After a moment, Peter moves his hand from her chin and accidentally brushes over a raw, fleshy gash just above her front left leg.

The cat shoots out of his lap with a hiss and bolts back to her spot under the dumpster. 

“Oh, nonono,” he says, crawling towards the trash. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, dumpster baby. I hit a boo boo? I’m sorry.”

It takes a couple minutes of coaxing for her to come back out again, but when she does, Peter doesn’t hesitate to scoop her into his arms. The cat gives him an almost surprised look, but settles in with a half-croak half-meow.

He feels like a parent. He’s a parent now. 

“Let’s go get you to mean old Mr. Stark.”

Peter leans in close and whispers to the cat conspiringly, “I would bring you home with me, but May would die. Literally. She’s very allergic.”

Straightening up, Peter is extremely careful not to jostle Dumpster Kitty’s leg too much. He scratches her behind her ears as he emerges from the alleyway, limping slightly and grinning as familiar purrs light in her chest. Thankfully, they aren’t too far from the tower. 

“You know, Tony might die, too,” Peter tacks on thoughtfully, “but he’s not allergic. He’s just dramatic like that.”

/

“Peter, I am not keeping that mangy thing here.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “It’s both of us or none of us,” he says stubbornly. 

Tony laughs shortly. “You’re kidding, right?”

Peter is completely silent, and holds eye contact as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I've never been more serious in my entire life.”

There’s a clatter behind Tony, who’s too busy staring him down to turn around. A broad smile stretches over Peter’s face when he catches sight of what’s going on. 

“Look—she likes you!”

“What—no, get off my table, you absolute heathen!” Tony spits. 

With the speed only a veteran superhero has, he pops a shoe off into his hand and runs at the dinner table, straight for Peter’s new cat. 

Peter practically body checks him, channeling his inner small-town-high-school-linebacker. “Tony! Hey. Stop. Cut it out. No.”

The kitty scampers away as Tony turns his wild, bewildered expression to Peter. His arm is still raised, the hand gripping the shoe shaking slightly. 

“It just knocked my lunch off the table!” he says petulantly, gesturing wildly with his free hand. “That was Pepper's favorite bowl.”

“She.”

“What?”

“Not _it,”_ he says firmly, _“She.”_

“She,” Tony repeats incredulously. His arm finally drops, and the shoe falls to the floor. 

“Her name is Stinky,” Peter says brightly. 

Like she was summoned, Stinky comes charging at Peter and launches herself at him. He catches her with a huge, effortless smile. 

Tony just stares at them. Slowly, his eyebrows crawl up his face, and blinks exactly once. Then he disappears out of the dining room. 

No answer is better than a no. Peter beams at him and rubs Stinky behind her ears.

/

A fierce, shooting pain has Peter jolting awake. He thinks to himself, _ah, this again, yay,_ before he throws himself out bed and blindly charges down the hall. 

The bathroom door slams against the wall and Peter finds himself in a familiar position, curled around the toilet bowl with last night’s meatloaf making a reappearance. 

The overhead light flickers on, and Peter blearily makes out May standing in the doorway. 

Wordlessly, she fills up the cup on the sink and offers it to him, plopping down beside him as he takes it from her hands. He washes out his mouth before shifting away from the toilet and leaning against the bathtub. 

May sighs and scoots forward. She puts a firm hand to his forehead, knuckles pressing lightly into his skin, a deep wrinkle splitting her eyebrows. Said hand then travels from his forehead to his cheek. 

Peter gives her his I’m Not A Baby And Please Stop Touching My Face look. May responds with her Yes You Are Now Hold Still look and switches her hand to his other cheek just to spite him. 

“Am not,” Peter grumbles. 

May ignores him and removes her hand. “You don’t feel that hot,” she says out loud, her brow slightly furrowed. 

Peter slides against the bathtub until he can reach the spout, and turns the water on. He dunks his head under the stream a couple times before he says, “I’m pretty sure it’s just nerves.”

May gives him a curious look as he sits back, water dripping down into the neckline of his shirt. 

“Tony asked me to give a speech thing on Friday. As in, three days from now. That Friday,” Peter says, rubbing his nose.

That’s all he has to say. May winces sympathetically and squeezes his shoulder. “Pepper was telling me about that.”

Peter looks at her, incredulous.

“She does not think it’s a good idea, either,” May informs seriously. 

What the fuck. How is everyone in his life just—chill with his upcoming demise. The approaching end of his life. What the fuck. 

May stands up, her knees creaking and popping, and offers a hand. Peter shakes his head. He’s content to sit here for just a few more minutes. 

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you get up. I think we have some ginger ale in the fridge.”

He nods, and lets his head fall back against the lip of the tub once she leaves. A sigh shudders through him, and he closes his eyes against the dying light. 

Everything hurts. His head, his chest, his lungs. Especially his lower stomach. He’s convinced his legs have their own separate heartbeats. He might be coming down with something. 

Peter snorts a little at the thought, imagining giving his presentation with a snotty nose and swollen face. Then immediately frowns. 

Resigning himself to a lifetime of eternal, constant suffering, Peter cracks his eyes open and slumps away from the bathtub. He stumbles back into his bedroom, peeling his wet shirt off and replacing it with one he grabs off the floor. 

May is sitting in her usual spot at the kitchen table. Her glasses are low on her nose and a book is laying out in front of her, page dog-eared. Two sleeves of crackers and a bottle of Canada Dry rest in front of the seat beside her. 

He all but collapses into the chair, miserably shoving three crackers in his mouth. May looks on, almost stone-faced, and slides the bottle to him. 

Peter chokes on his first sip when five sneezes erupt out of May, shaking her entire body. “When,” she squeaks out, “did you get a _cat.”_

/

Peter strokes the small ball of fur curled in his lap, legs practically vibrating from the strength of Stinky’s purrs, as he watches one of Tony’s feet tap at the floor. The rest of his body is hidden underneath one of his many cars, and a toolbox is open by his legs.

“You’ve gotta readjust the conkythottle in the engine cavity and then give the jiggly wrench half a counterclockwise turn,” Peter suggests from his spot against the garage wall.

“Helpful input as always, Pete,” Tony calls back. A hand snakes out and snags a different tool. 

Stinky wiggles out of Peter’s arms and trots over to the toolbox. After sniffing at the bright red paint, she delicately steps into it and sits herself down on Tony’s tools. 

Peter swallows a laugh when Tony’s hand comes out again, just to get a handful of fur, a swift bite to the thumb, and Stinky’s indignant _mrrp._

“So what are we thinking after I’m done here? Dinner and Netflix?” Tony calls from under the car, shaking his hand out. “Our Parks and Rec rewatch is calling my name, and I’m totally down for fueling your massive crush on April.”

“Sure,” Peter says, rolling his eyes. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens Instagram. “Hey, have you ever noticed how Andy looks like Other Peter?”

“What?” A big clang almost drowns out Tony’s voice. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so.” Another clang. “I’m feeling Italian tonight, is that okay with you? I’ll make chicken alfredo.”

“Ugh, no.” Peter grimaces and a shudder runs through his body. “No offense, Tony, but that just sounds _blegh.”_

“Offense taken.” Even with his voice muffled, Peter can hear the petulance. “You love my ‘fredo.”

“Yeah. Usually. I don’t know,” Peter says dejectedly, “I just have a stomachache. And like, no appetite.”

Tony slides out from under the car, head poking up. Grease is streaked across his shirt and face, but he makes no moves towards the rag off to the side. 

“Is this some sort of guilt trip?” he asks flatly. “Because if it is, it’s working.”

Peter’s face pinches up, the gears already turning. 

“You’re still doing the speech,” Tony adds, catching on to his thoughts. “I’ll just feel a little bit worse about it.”

Peter rolls his eyes, relenting. “It’s not that bad,” he sighs.

Really, it’s not. Not anymore. Peter finally figured out that popping like, twenty Advil at a time keeps the pain at a solid four. Sometimes it spikes, but. He’s doing great. He’s fine. 

He should probably look into a Xanax prescription. 

“As long as you make me some garlic bread, I’m happy,” he concedes, not wanting to kill Tony’s mood. 

Tony grins and claps his hands together, finally snatching the grease rag up before marching towards the door. “Sounds great.”

Stinky yowls and hops out of the tool box, trotting after Tony and screeching all the way. Peter bites back a smile and follows after them.

Tony sighs and throws over his shoulder, “Dumpster Demon can have the leftover chicken.”

Like she understood him, Stinky meows satisfactorily as Peter scoops her into his arms. He ignores the dirty look Tony shoots at him and his cat as he hurries to walk beside him.

“Hey, you wanna feed pigeons with me later? There’s this one that’s like, ginormous. He's huge. Sometimes me and May try to guess how much he weighs. Stop giving me that look! He’s genuinely super-sized. It might—. It might be a problem, actually.”

/

Peter swings through the open medbay window, gracefully arcing through the air and completely butchering the landing. He swiftly rights himself and stumbles through the pitch black room, on the hunt for some type of first aid kit. 

“Sun is shining in the sky,” he hums to himself, “there ain’t a cloud—oops, sorry sorry sorry, ah shit.”

Three IV stands go crashing to the floor. 

Peter cringes heavily at the noise, shoulders rising up to his neck, and attempts to hop over the mess splayed out in front of him. He immediately careens into a medical bed, kicking it so hard it goes sliding across the floor. 

A sharp pain shoots through the offending foot, and Peter instinctively hunches over, only to be stopped by the absolute _agony_ that flares in his torso. 

Speaking of. 

Peter hobbles to the center of the room, away from any and all medical equipment that he could bulldoze. In the dim lighting, he takes as good a look as he can at the hastily-applied splotch of dissolving webbing from patrol just under his ribs. 

After a moment, Peter scrapes the web remnants off and unabashedly drops it into a red, soggy pile on the floor. A bullet hole stares back at him, leaking blood. 

Damn. Bodega Robber: one. Peter: zero. 

Maybe it’ll get horribly infected, and Peter won’t be forced into giving his presentation tomorrow.

“Ouchies,” he mutters to himself and prods at the hole in his side. It spurts a little. “Oh, that’s new.”

The light flicks on, bathing the room in blinding white light. Peter’s head whips up to find Tony standing in the doorway, hands on his hips like Regina George. He watches with wide eyes as Tony’s gaze lands on his blood-soaked side, face impassive, and approaches him with a sigh.

Motherfucking statue. Peter guesses Tony’s used to his bullshit now.

“So. What did you do this time,” Tony deadpans, almost rejected.

Oh yeah. He’s definitely used to it.

“I got shot.” Peter shrugs. 

“You got shot,” Tony repeats, slow.

“I got shot.”

Peter purses his lips at Tony’s absolutely _wired_ expression and looks back down at the wound. He pokes it again.

“Stop—don’t _do that!”_ Tony screeches and lungs forwards, wrestling Peter’s hand away from the bullet hole.

Peter frowns. “It’s just a—”

“Do not,” Tony glowers, jabbing a finger at Peter, “even _think_ of finishing that sentence.”

Peter’s mouth snaps shut with a soft _clop._

Tony maneuvers Peter’s elbows out of the way and examines the wound. His hands hover above the skin, but Peter still has the urge to wiggle away. 

“That’s it?” Tony asks, pulling back. 

Peter goes right back to pressing a hand over it. “That’s it.”

A sudden bout of uncertainty hits him and Peter screws his face up. “Well, actually, I think I might have a broken toe. But other than that, that’s it.”

Tony literally doesn’t blink. 

Peter raises an eyebrow against the withering glare, significantly unimpressed. 

Tony crosses his arms, and without his eyes leaving Peter’s face, asks flatly, “FRIDAY?”

Her voice rings across the room. “Including the stomach pains, loss of appetite, vomiting, and slight fever?”

“That’s just anxiety,” Peter says and picks at the webbing on the suit. “That’s jus-”

“Yes,” Tony interrupts, “including those.”

“Well, it appears Peter has been exhibiting classic symptoms of appendicitis.”

Everything about Tony just… _deflates,_ and transforms into his patented Are You Kidding Me face. A silence stretches between them as Peter’s mouth opens and closes. The hole in his side pumps sluggishly, more blood slipping through his fingers, as if it’s just as surprised as him at the revelation.

“Oh.” Peter blinks. “You know? That actually makes a lot of sense.”

“For god’s sake, Pete,” Tony sighs, his entire body deflating like a popped balloon. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sets his other hand on his hip. “Are you kidding me? You’re kidding me. This is a joke.”

“This is not a joke,” FRIDAY says. 

“Bed. Now.” Tony’s order is irrefutable. 

Peter guiltily limps to the nearest bed, hopping on one foot to avoid jarring his toe. He—he might’ve seriously broken it. _Fuck,_ that hurts.

“I thought it was nerves,” he says defensively as he collapses on the bed, voice hiking up a couple octaves.

_“Nerves?”_

“Yeah! You asked me to give a speech and—Tony, you _know_ how much I hate public speaking.” 

“What? You’re—this—you’re blaming this on me?” Tony shakes his head viciously, cutting himself off. The vein in his forehead is getting so big it might explode. “You know what? No. I’m not doing this right now. You need surgery.” 

“You sure?” Peter asks, fixing Tony with a skeptical gaze. “‘Cuz I feel fine. Seriously. I don’t even feel sick anymore.”

“Boss,” FRIDAY pops in, “Peter’s appendix most likely ruptured. I would recommend an X-ray to confirm and immediate medical attention.”

Tony’s face falls into something infinitely more exasperated. “You really just...” He sighs. “You always have to go all out, don’t you, Parker.”

Peter grins and scratches his nose. 

Tony sighs again, louder this time. He rubs at the space between his eyebrows forcefully. “FRIDAY, please tell May Parker her nephew is an idiot moron. And that he’s getting his appendix removed.”

Peter drops the grin in favor of a scowl. “Idiot moron yourself,” he mutters. 

“And please get Dr. Malik from New York Gen. on a copter here ASAP,” Tony finishes, fingers still massaging his face. 

Peter’s face scrunches up. He turns his attention back to the bullet wound in his side, ignoring the burn and twisting until it all came into view. 

“I swear to god, kid, if you touch that thing again I’ll tranq you myself.”

“I wasn’t gonna touch it,” he says defensively, and discreetly moves his hand away from the bloody hole. 

“Alright. Just—” Tony puts a hand out, “—lay there and try not to spontaneously combust or die. The doctor will be here in four minutes.”

Peter huffs but does as he asks. He maneuvers himself so his body is laying on the bed _without_ further hurting his toe, and squirms around on the paper coverings until he gets comfortable. His mouth opens to complain about the chilly room, but before he could get a word out, a thick blanket smacks him in the face. 

He peels it away and spreads it over his shoulders. Peter shoots a quick glance over to Tony to see the man glaring back at him, arms crossed and brows pinches. Tony would make an excellent bouncer. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

Tony grunts.

Oh hell yeah. Very bouncer-y.

Three minutes and thirty-two seconds later, two very official looking people burst through the medbay doors. Peter pins Dr. Malik as the one with the white lab coat over dark blue scrubs and a _very_ serious face. 

“Hey, Doc!” Peter brightens at the man's arrival. “You here to fix me up?”

Dr. Malik nods brusquely and hurries over to Tony’s side, already chattering about medicine and an operation room and a bunch of other medical shit. 

Peter sighs and lays back down. A gloved hand snatches his arm up not a moment later and wipes it all over with a disinfectant swab. 

Dr. Malik, the one doing the swabbing, wraps a blue rubber tourniquet just above his elbow before grabbing an IV needle. After asking Peter’s permission, he gently slides it into his vein. Peter watches with mild curiosity as the doctor secures the needle to the bag of fluids hanging on the IV stand, and pushes a couple hundred milligrams of anesthesia into the line. 

Tony blanches and his entire face twists into something significantly disgusted. “How are you just watching him do that?”

“I have the will of God,” Peter says, deadpan. 

He waits exactly one minute after the doctor added the anesthesia before, “I don’t even feel anything. Is this working right? Because I don’t feel anything.”

“Just give it a sec,” Dr. Malik murmurs. He pushes himself up and dusts his hands off on his pants before looking to Tony. “I’ve got to go get ready. One of the nurses will roll him out when he’s asleep.”

“Thanks,” Tony sighs. “I’ll let the kid’s aunt know.”

“I’m going without her?” Peter asks, his face screwing up. That doesn’t feel right. “She’s—she’ll get mad at me. Us. If I go without her.”

Peter jerks upright, a dead serious expression on his face as he grabs Tony’s arm. “We—we’ll be in some hot water. Literally. She’ll boil us. We’ll be the main ingredient in a—in a chowder of pain.”

He doesn’t get to see Tony’s reaction to that, because, because... Holy shit. The room is all wobbly. 

Peter giggles and watches the walls bounce like an elastiband around him. The lights are twisting around like- like puffy clouds. Cumulonimbus. “Mm… Mister Blue Sky… pl-lease tell us why…”

Haaa. Spinny ceiling.

/

A nice looking lady is leaning over Peter when he wakes up. 

Wakes up? He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Or waking up. Or, or...

He abruptly sits up, narrowly avoiding crashing into Nice Lady’s face. She chuckles quietly and gently presses an arm against him, trying to get him flat. Peter resists very briefly before realizing he thinks he wants to—wants to—

His head is really heavy. Okay. Very very heavy. 

Peter flops back down all dead-fish-like. 

What the _fuck_ is going on.

“You just got out of surgery, sweetie,” Nice Lady says. She tucks the corners of the bedsheet under him. “Mr. Stark’s right here, say hi.” 

“Oh.” His voice sounds muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. His dead fish head tips to the side, crinkling the pillow (pillow? pillow.) under him, and a blurry figure comes towards him. “Hi,” he slurs.

The blurry figure comes into focus. It’s very much Tony Stark. Content, Peter’s gaze drifts upwards, landing on the ceiling above him. It’s doing this odd, wavy thing. Very interesting.

“Hey, bud.” A hand brushes through his hair. “May’s getting some breakfast right now, so it’s just me. Just Tony.”

“Hi Tony, it’s—” Peter breaks off into giggles and leans back on the pillow, staring at the swirling ceiling. He takes a deep breath and holds it as he forces his face as serious as it’ll get. “It’s _Dad.”_

He laughs again hysterically, but abruptly stops when a pain tugs through his stomach. “Hey—ow.” A deep frown etches over his face. 

Peter clumsily pushes back the blankets in order to take a look at the source of the ache, only to see a tight gauze bandage taped across his belly. The skin around the bandage is red and slightly puffy. 

Like a Puffle. A Puffle is on him. He wants to touch.

Another hand catches his own before it makes contact with his stomach. He traces it back to Tony, who’s blurring in and out the more Peter looks at him. 

“Ow,” he says again, although this time was more questioning. 

“Yeah, ow,” Tony says softly. The hand is back in his hair, and the calming rhythm has his eyelids drooping shut. “Go back to sleep, Pete. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“M’kay,” he whispers, already drifting away. 

The last thing he hears before falling completely asleep is a muffled, “Jesus, Doc, what is he _on?”_

**Author's Note:**

> most of the inspiration for this came from me and mj’s incredibly stupid conversations so everyone say thanks mj and blow them a kissie kiss
> 
> comments/kudos always appreciated 🥺🥺 
> 
> come talk to me!  
> [twitter ♡](https://twitter.com/wwebheadd)  
> [tumblr ♡](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tssympathize)


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